


in a way i can't return

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Eliot is Very Confused, M/M, Quentin is Very Sad, Quentin makes bad decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Quentin smiles gently at the couple by the doors saying goodbye to their parents. The mom’s crying, but so are the couple. The dads got his mouth clamped shut, and seems to be trying with all his might not to burst into tears in the airport. One of the girls in the couple suddenly rush forward and wrap their arms around him, in a viper like grip.Feeling something unfamiliar twinge at the center of his gut, Quentin lets his gaze sweep over the other people in the airport saying their goodbyes. His carry on’s a heavy weight at his feet, anchoring him while the security line stubbornly refuses to move. There’s another couple that catches his eye—a woman in an army uniform, all camo, hugging a man while a small child stands between them, her little arms wrapped tight around the woman's legs.--Or, another i love you.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This took forever, just because i wasn't sure how to end it. Still not entirely happy with it, but there it is!

Quentin smiles gently at the couple by the doors saying goodbye to their parents. The mom’s crying, but so are the couple. The dads got his mouth clamped shut, and seems to be trying with all his might not to burst into tears in the airport. One of the girls in the couple suddenly rush forward and wrap their arms around him, in a viper like grip.

Feeling something unfamiliar twinge at the center of his gut, Quentin lets his gaze sweep over the other people in the airport saying their goodbyes. His carry on’s a heavy weight at his feet, anchoring him while the security line stubbornly refuses to move. There’s another couple that catches his eye—a woman in an army uniform, all camo, hugging a man while a small child stands between them, her little arms wrapped tight around the woman's legs.

There are so many people saying goodbye. He moves away from them, feels too much like he’s invading on a moment he’s not actually invited into, and turns to look at the line ahead of him. Part of him wonders what made him pick a flight so late in the afternoon, when the airports at it’s busiest; people weaving in and out, forgetting to throw out things that could get them arrested, or forgetting to print their boarding passes, or simply moving further back to meet up with their friends who arrived later. Whatever it is, it’s crowded. And for the life of him, he can’t figure out why he chose this flight.

He can’t really remember much these days, though.

Julia said there was an accident, that’s why he can’t remember. Three days ago, two weeks ago, fuck, four years. It’s all just . . . gone. She updated him on a lot of it, though. Says Yale accepted him, and he did great. He’d apparently been a professor for a few months, as well. And the dean, Henry something or another, said he was welcome to return to his position—but it felt wrong.

Just. Being in New York felt wrong.

And everything Julia said about his life? It feels like a lie.

Maybe it’s because his dad died and Quentin can’t remember the last thing he said to him. Maybe it’s because it feels like Julia’s keeping something from him. He doesn’t really know. It just. Feels like something’s _missing._ And it’s not just his memories. He’d even gone so far as to try and ask his mom to fill in some of the details, but she’d sent his calls to voicemail. So, what’s the point?

Booking the flight had been an impulse decision, if he’s being honest. Doesn’t remember much—or any—of what lead him to doing it, but he hadn’t erased his search history. The last thing he’d searched before pulling up orbitz had been a remarkably simple question.

Simple enough that he didn’t even tell Julia about it. So simple that it made sense that this is where his life was going before whatever accident took his memories of the last four years.

‘ _Where can I be happy?_ ’

He’s not sure how Boulder, Colorado compares to New York or what about the results had made him click it, choose it, and book a flight. All he knows is apparently there’s nothing in New York to keep him here. While he packed, he’d called Julia and asked her if she knew where his copies of Fillory and Further were, and there’d been a long pause. Loaded.

And then she’d said, soft and hesitant, like she was worried she’d scare him off, “ _You threw them out._ ”

She tried to make it better by telling him that he’d moved on. But, Quentin’s not an idiot. Maybe an amnesiac, these days, but not dumb. He pretended to understand, said yeah, okay, that makes sense, and found an excuse to hang up.

After that he just packed the essentials.

He didn’t tell her he was leaving. Part of him wonders if she knew about his plans before his accident, though.

There’s a rustle by the entrance that catches his attention, as he turns, twists his neck. A man’s rushing through the door, desperately looking through the crowd for someone. He’s tall enough to see over most people, but he’s still frantically pushing people aside, darting around others, as he makes his way towards the security line.

A sad little smile tugs at Quentin’s lips as he turns to face forward again, finally moving forward a step as the line starts to move—and then immediately stops because, of course. He glances over his shoulder again, the man’s still wondering around. He catches a man by the shoulder, spins him around, and sighs, before glaring at the man and moving on. He’s pretty, if a little wild eyed.

Quentin turns front facing again, looking down at the ground between him and the man standing in front of him. Hopefully the man finds who he’s looking for without making too much of a scene.

Maybe his person hasn’t gone through security yet.

Hopefully somebody can have a reason to be happy in New York.

Quentin reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, looking up from beneath his eyelashes and catching a little girl staring at him. His eyes dart left, then right, before he offers an awkward, close lipped smile and turns his gaze away. Children kind of freak him out. Not really. Just—he just doesn’t know how to interact with him. Is mildly afraid of the parents thinking he’s some kind of creepy predator.

“—oo!”

Quentin blinks, twisting back around. The mans making his way through the security line with intent; officially making a scene.

“Cue!”

Quentin heaves in a breath and turns around. The man may be making a scene, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be part of the crowd ogling the poor guy. Someone he loves is leaving, and he’s having his big, grand, romantic scene at the end of the movie to tell them he loves them.

Quentin’d be lying if he said he doesn’t wish he had something similar. Someone so desperately in love with him.

Then again, maybe it’s not a romantic thing at all. Maybe his person forgot something important, and the tall, pretty man is just trying with all his might to get it to them before they get on their flight. Shipping costs these days, Quentin imagines, must be hefty.

“Damn it!”

His voice is getting closer, and Quentin’s almost surprised people are letting the man get through the line so quickly. A good spot in the security line is coveted. No cutsies.

He hopes the man doesn’t expect him to just move.

Though, knowing himself, he knows damn well he’ll move. Even if it is just to help some random hot guy not have to pay expensive shipping fees.

The voice is much closer when it booms over the crowd when it says, “ _Quentin!_ ”

Quentin’s brow furrows. But he keeps his eyes frontward. He’s not this guys Quentin. Because Julia would have mentioned any tall, curly haired male models in his life. Right? Right. She’d mention that she’s not his only friend. She’d give him reasons to stay in New York if there were any.

Of course, he hadn’t really told her he was leaving.

Doubley of course, he actually doesn’t know if she knows or not.

A hand wraps around the bend of his elbow, and pulls him around. His carry on sprawls over on its side, and Quentin hears the distinct crunch of his bag of potato chips crushing beneath he weight of it right before he looks up into a pair of deep hazel eyes. Which, whoa. He swallows thickly, unsure of what to do. What to say.

He blinks owlishly up at the man, who’s breathless, chest heaving as he stares down at Quentin like his world’s finally settling around him. The hand not still wrapped around Quentin’s elbow comes up and cups his cheek.

Quentin’s eyes close of their own accord.

Clearly they know each other. Or the man knows him. God, Quentin doesn’t know, and he’s leaning into this touch like some kind of love sick idiot. He clears his throat, pulling back and opening his eyes, because no. No, whoever this is—Julia would have told him if he’s someone important to him.

He yanks his arm out from the mans grasp, takes another step back—almost crashes into the man standing behind him. Luckily, he trips over his bag instead, and catches himself before he can fall. He glances around from beneath his hair, realizes he’s now part of the grand attraction of the man’s big romantic whatever this is, and closes his eyes. Tries to steady himself.

“Q.”

His eyes snap open, eyebrows furrowing almost angrily as he looks up at the man.

His gaze is soft. Lips set in a sad frown as he looks him over. He looks so—so _confused._

Which, hey hot guy who’s grabbing him out of nowhere, that’s not fair, because Quentin’s the one with amnesia, thank you very much.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Quentin huffs, straightening out his jacket as a wave of confused anger washes over him. “Look,” He says, lowering his voice a few octaves in an attempt to make himself sound more confident—though he’s pretty sure it just makes him sound like an idiot. He clears his throat, holds a hand out between them as the man reaches for him. “Man, I—I don’t know who you are—or. Or who you think I am. But. Uh, I’m—you’ve. Definitely. Wrong person.” He nods to himself, eyes darting over the crowd watching them. “Me. I’m—I’m the, uh. Wrong person. Sorry.” He nods to himself again, and turns around.

Thinks the conversations over.

“No, Q,” The man says, all soft and pained and warm. He practically feels it when the man takes a step closer to him. “You’re definitely not the wrong person. An _idiot._ But not the wrong person.”

Quentin turns back around, affronted. Because strangers don’t get to call him an idiot. Only Julia and his own mind get to do that. “Excuse me—I don’t know who you—who you think—“

The man sets his lips in a thin line, raises his hands—does some weird kind of finger dance—and then looks at Quentin pointedly. “What the _fuck,_ Q?”

“ _Me,_ what the fuck? No, _you_ what the fuck.”

It’s around then that he realizes.

The bustling and hustling over the airports gone silent. No loud announcements crackling over the intercom, no TSA agents screaming instructions at a crowd that’s not listening. No children crying further up the line, or people murmuring their own opinions about the exchange between him and the stranger. It’s deadly quiet. He looks around, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear and finds that they haven’t all just gone quiet.

No, they’re frozen in place. Everyone. Every _thing._  

He whips around, stares wide eyed at the man, who seems to be the only other person not frozen. And, unlike Quentin, he seems _unsurprised_ by this particular turn of events.

“What the—“ His mouth falls open and he trips backwards, stumbling over his suitcase in an attempt to get away from the man and his pretty hazel eyes. It’s a trap. A nightmare maybe. Julia hadn’t mentioned his depression turning into psychosis but—he’s got proof right here and now.

A demon, a beautiful deadly demon, stalking his dreams.

“Q, stop—“ The man reaches out, catches him by the elbow before he can actually fall, steadies him.

A pathetic little whimper works its way up and out, and he yanks his arm out from the mans grasp again. “What—what the fuck—I don’t—“

The man rolls his lips, before holding his hands out in front of him, like he’s surrendering. “Please don’t be afraid, Q. _God._ ” He clenches his jaw. “Please. I—I know this is scary, but I can explain.”

Wide eyed, Quentin points a shaky finger at the people behind the man. “They’re all—how are they—I need to wake up—“

“You’re not _asleep._ ”

Quentin scoffs, shaking his head. “No, no. No. _I have to be,_ because this—“ He motions towards the silent, still crowd all around them, “ _This_ isn’t _possible_.”

The man inhales, takes a careful step in. “Q,” He says, somehow softer than before, “Please—I.” He stops, chin dimpling as he looks down between them and licks his lips. “I can’t fucking _believe_ you did this,” He mutters, before looking back up at him. “I was going to fix it, you asshole.”

“Whoa—“ Quentin shakes his head, moves his trembling hand to point at him accusatively, “No. You don’t get to be mad at me—I—I don’t even know who you are!”

“And you don’t think that’s part of the _problem?_ ” There’s a hidden wrath beneath the soft tone, and Quentin fells himself take a step back without meaning to.

“I—I have amnesia. There was an accident—“

“There wasn’t an _accident,_ ” The man all but hisses, leaning with a dangerous furrow in his brow. His eyes are watery like he’s trying not to cry, or scream—or both. “I came to. And you were _gone._ You left Julia to explain everything to me.” He reaches up and runs a hand through his disheveled curly mess of hair. “What the fuck even was that. And don’t tell me you don’t know, because I know _that_ fun little tidbit!”

Quentin splutters helplessly. “I—I don’t—“

The man reaches forward and grabs Quentin by the shoulders. “We were supposed to get a second chance. And you—you opted to erase it. What the fuck, Q?”

“ _Who are you?_ ”

The man’s face falls, and he lets go, taking a step back. His face goes remarkably blank and he stares at Quentin for a long moment; it’s almost unnerving the way it feels like he can see into the depths of Quentin’s mind. “I was trapped in my mind for _months,_ Q,” He finally says. He’s calmer now, even if there is a slight tremor to his voice. “I planned what I’d say—I. I planned on _fixing_ what I did.” His chin trembles, and he reaches up to wipe at the corner of his eye as he turns his gaze to the ceiling.

Quentin follows his gaze. The ceiling’s yellowed and old. He wonders if that’s what his life was before he decided to leave it all behind. But then his eyes slide over to the long, sloping length of the mans throat, and he thinks, no. No. Nothing boring or old or decaying could have brought this man into his life.

“What did you do?”

The mans jaw audibly clicks before he inhales slowly and turns his angry, stormy, hazel eyes back on Quentin.

His eyes really are beautiful. If Quentin believed he’s capable of being loved, he’d think he could love these eyes. Doesn’t think he could ever get bored of looking into them.

“I broke your heart. But I was going to fix it.” He shakes his head. “I was going to _fix it._ You’re supposed to be the brave one. How could you fucking _run away?_ ”

Quentin blinks. “I—I don’t know what you’re _talking_ about. I’m—“

The man closes his eyes, shaking his head. “I _know_ that.” He says. “I know that you don’t fucking know.” He opens his eyes, looks like a porcelain doll fracturing right in front of Quentin when he does. “I was going to choose you, Q. I—I was going to ask for a chance to have a life together again.”

“ _Again?_ ”

None of this makes any fucking sense.

“Who _are_ you?”

He looks away for half a second, reaching up and running his hand through his hair. Quentin’s beginning to this it’s a nervous tick—something he does when he doesn’t know what else to do. He lets out a wet laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s here, having this conversation, and looks back at Quentin. “ _Eliot Waugh,_ ” He murmurs. “You died for me a week ago.” He shakes his head again, looks down at the ground. “And today _you don’t even know who the fuck I am._ ”

“I . . . I _died?_ ” The ‘ _for you?’_ is a silent addition that weaves itself into the air between them.

“And a whole lot of other stupid shit,” He agrees, “Trying to save my life.” He sniffs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I had this whole stupid plan, Q. I was going to take you back to Fillory. To the cottage.” his hand falls, lets Quentin see the tears building up in the corner of his eyes, like he can’t be bothered to hide it anymore. “I had this whole speech planned.” He looks down at Quentin, “And I’m not really one for speeches. Not really. Not unless our lives are in immediate danger and it’ll save us.”

Quentin stares up at him, mouth falling open. He doesn’t know what to say. How to make sense of any of this. There’s a beautiful man—a beautiful Eliot—staring down at him like Quentin put his world together and broke it apart all at once. Like there’s a century of history between them. “I—I’m sorry—“

“Our lives have been in danger for a long,” he pauses, swallowing, “ _Long_ time. I can’t actually blame you for wanting out. But,” He bites down on his bottom lip, and reaches out for Quentin’s hand. Without really thinking, Quentin closes the distance, lets Eliot’s fingers wrap around his own. Eliot hesitates only for a second, before he squeezes. “I wish you’d even _considered_ bringing me with you, Q.”

“Why . . . didn’t I?”

Eliot’s jaw ticks side to side. “Because you thought I’d be relieved to be free of you.” He looks at him carefully. “ _Your_ words, not mine,” he adds, bitterly. 

“And . . . you’re not.”

A choked off little laugh, humorless and sad, smokes out of Eliot as his thumb brushes over the back of Quentin’s hand. “No, Q,” He breathes, “I’m _not._ ”

Quentin looks up, into his eyes. His breath hitches, because there’s a depth of emotion hiding beneath them that almost scares him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He glances up, at the line behind Quentin, then back down. “ _And don’t go._ ” He nods, leaning down just a bit. The tendons in his neck stretch and flex, and Quentin has to tear his eyes away from them to look up, up back into Eliot’s eyes.

“I—“

This is all he knows. The boarding pass on his desk. This—this is all he _has_ of the last four years of his life _._ The results of a ‘where can I be happy?’ search. A bag packed with only the essentials at his feet, and a crushed bag of potato chips. A place not even close to the front of a line that hasn’t moved in thirty minutes, and a flight that could take off late. A life that a version of himself saw as the only life this version of him could be happy living.

Something, here in New York, _broke_ him. He doesn’t think it’s Eliot, because when he looks up at him his stomach swoops and cheers, aches for him to move in and close the distance. But he _knows_ he can’t stay here.

“Why did I think you’d be better off without me?”

“Because you’re insecure and I’m scared.”

“What are you scared of?”

He swallows, thick, and reaches up with his free hand to wrap it around the two they have linked in between them. “You.” Quentin looks away; can’t take the outright vulnerability shining in Eliot’s eyes. Can’t handle whatever it is that’s happening in his heart. Because he doesn’t know him. Doesn’t even recognize him, but his hearts racing like it knows something he doesn’t. “Or, I was. Now? I just. Q—I _love_ you.” 

Quentin inhales shakily, tries not to let the desperation behind the words seep into his heart in the way his heart wants them to, and looks down at their hands.

Whoever he was before—whoever he was erased it all _on purpose._

Slowly, _carefully_ , he pulls his hand out of Eliot’s grasp.

It only takes a small tug, before Eliot lets his hands fall away effortlessly. Before he takes a step back and clears his throat. “Okay.” He says, nodding. “Okay, Q.”

Quentin’s barely had a chance to blink before the noise returns, rushing and flowing in around them. He’s pushed forward by the man behind him, an elbow digging painfully into his back, expects Eliot to catch him—doesn’t know why he does, just that it feels like an inevitability—but instead, he falls into empty air. Barely manages to catch himself before he crashes to the ground.

The people around him glare, a woman tugging her child in closer to her.

Quentin uprights himself, looks around, twists in a circle; tries to catch sight of the head of curls.

But Eliot’s gone.

And the man in front of Quentin takes a step forward.

Quentin’s chest heaves as he spins again. His eyes dart around—catches sight of more families saying their goodbyes. The woman behind him glares again, waits for him to move. He stops, breathes in through his nose, a short whimpering noise forcing its way out of his throat, before she shoves at him. He looks at her, wide eyed, before leaning down and picking up his suitcase.

He risks a glance through the crowd again, but there’s still no sign of Eliot Waugh.

Quentin takes the next step in line.

 

 

 

Three days after he starts his life over, there’s a knock on the door. It’s hesitant, and only three soft clicks of knuckles against wood, but it fills the whole of Quentin’s empty apartment. He glances up from the book in his lap, frowning. He hasn’t met anyone yet; hasn’t even started working. He swallows, moves the book so it’s lying spine up—an unforgivable action if Julia ever saw it—and slowly uncrosses his legs, until his socked toes carefully settle on the hardwood beneath the couch.

There’s another knock, a little more insistent. He inhales through his nose, wonders if he can dart into his bedroom before they see his shadow moving through the window.

Next on his list of things to do is buy a baseball bat in case robbers try to steal all of his nothing.

Sighing, as they knock again, fiercer, hectic, he makes his way across the living room. “All right,” He mutters to himself, wiping his hands on the front of his pajama pants, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” He stops at the door, hesitates for only a moment of wishing he’d gone for the apartment with the door with a fucking peephole. He hears whoever it is shuffle their feet impatiently outside the door, and unlocks it, closing his eyes.

God, why hadn’t he purchasing a baseball bat?

The feet on the other side of the door stop shuffling, something heavy settles on the door.

“ _Q._ ”

Quentin blinks, eyes snapping open, as he frantically pulls the chain—his fingers slip three times before he manages to unhook it—and yanks open the door. He heaves in a breath, eyes going wide. He’d been sure he imagined it. Lost and bored in the airport—dreamt up a stranger with soft hazel eyes and curly brown hair. Made up a life where someone loved him and was willing to stop time to try and keep him from leaving.

He stares, wide eyed and confused. Shocked.

Pretty hazel eyes stare down at him, a curious worried furrow between them above the ridge of a nose.

“Hi,” Quentin says, breathless.

_Eliot Waugh._

He hadn’t invented him, after all.

Not only had he not invented him, but he’s here. Somehow. Staring down at him like he’s terrified and filled with confidence all at once.

“ _Hey._ ”

Quentin’s eyes rake over him, from head to toe to—to a small suitcase lying on the floor beside him. His eyes dart back up to Eliot’s. “Visiting?” He asks, soft.

Eliot shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know,” He answers, voice hoarse, and eyes gleaming. “This guy I love wouldn’t stay in New York for me. So, I figured, who needs New York.” He smiles, close lipped and chaste, “Besides. I hear Boulder’s one of the happiest cities to live in.” He narrows his eyes. “Boring, but happy.”

Quentin nods, speechless. “Boring, but happy,” He echoes. Swallowing, he takes a step back, his hand slipping from the doorknob and falling to his side. “I don’t—I still—“

“Good,” Eliot interrupts, “Because in, like, twelve hours, I’m going to forget basically everything except why I’m here. So, it’s probably good that you haven’t suddenly remembered all your trauma. Otherwise,” He makesa face, eyes darting to the side. “Awkward.”

“How did you—“

“Come on, Q,” He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and maybe for him it is. “I’ve got magic. For twelve more hours, at least.” He looks Quentin over for a moment while Quentin lets the information work its way through his brain. Lets the words settle. Then he takes a step in, swallows, his Adams apple bobbing. “I don’t want to make you remember all the bad shit, Q. But I—I want you to remember me.”

Quentin blinks. “Is that even—“

“Would I bring it up if it weren’t?”

“I don’t know.”

Eliot smiles, holds a hand out between them like he wants to shake Quentins. “Good news is, no, I wouldn’t. But—in the meantime. Hi,” He glances down at his hand, motions for Quentin to actually shake it. Quentin does so, almost automatically. Eliot’s thumb brushing over the back of Quentin’s hand, and his smile softens. “I’m Eliot Waugh. I know I’m a little late, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Quentin nods. Then nods again. “I—yeah,” He says. “You were right.” He feels his eyebrows furrow, because he has no idea what’s happening or why he’s okay—let alone _happy_ —with it. But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care even in the slightest. “I don’t mind.”

Eliot’s eyes crinkle up around the edges. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“ _So,_ yeah.”

Eliot laughs, boisterous as he pulls in Quentin by his hand, and reaches up with his free hand to wrap it around the back of Quentin’s neck. “Can’t believe you’re kissing a stranger.” He says, soft puffs of air against Quentin’s lips. Quentin goes to pull away to argue that he doesn’t _feel_ like a stranger, but Eliot laughs, pulls him in with a guiding pressure at the back of his neck.

What the plan is, must be attached to the kiss, because as Quentin’s eyes close, memories of a cottage in the woods, and of children and grandchildren come sprinkling in to fill in most of the blank spaces in Quentin’s memories.

“None of the bad stuff,” Eliot whispers against his lips.

Quentin pulls him back in, nodding. He reaches up with his own free hand, buries it in Eliot’s hair, fingers weaving in through curls that slowly weave themselves into his memories as well. “None of the bad stuff,” he agrees, pressing and pulling until he can close every bit of space between them.

_‘Where can I be happy?’_

Anywhere.

 


	2. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin talks to Julia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written back when I wrote the first part, I just never knew if I'd ever post it. But, I realized it was completely done, so here it is.

“I need a favor.” 

Julia looks up from her book. “What are you doing here?” She asks, closing it and setting on the couch beside her. “Shouldn’t you be with Margo and Eliot?” 

“He’s going to be fine,” He offers up a watery smile as he wraps his arms around his waist. He looks everywhere but at her, eyes stinging. He waits a moment, tries to find something to focus his gaze on, but finding nothing, just stares at the wall behind her and says, “I need you to erase it, Jules.” 

She carefully pushes up from the couch; he can sense her caution settling in the air around him. Senses a big speech about not being afraid and bravery and everything coming up. “Erase . . . what?” 

He shrugs, looks down at the ground in front of him. Focuses on a block of the hardwood floor that’s been singed with magic. Probably the result of some first year fucking up a spell during a party. Or maybe it’s from something more reckless. Almost every other scar in the cottage is. “Everything,” He says, soft. Slowly, he lets his gaze slide up until he can look her in the eye. She’s watching him wide eyed. Maybe she think’s he’s finally cracked.

Maybe he has.

He doesn’t care anymore. 

“Everything?” 

He nods, once. “Magic. Fillory. Brakebills. . .” He bites down on his lower lip for a moment, before adding, brokenly, “Eliot.” 

“Q—“ 

“He’s alive. He’s going to be okay. Everyone’s—Everyones better without me fucking everything up. Without me—mooning after him.” 

She tilts her head, something akin to pity settling in her eyes, and he wishes he could do this for himself. Wishes he could just erase it and start over without more of her fucking pity. “That’s not true—“ 

“I’m the reason everything keeps getting worse. And, El. He—Eliot deserves better, Jules.” He looks towards the bookshelves, swallowing. “I love him so much it hurts. I was willing to die for him—“

“You did die for him.” 

“Yeah, well,” He shrugs, annoyed at the way the words sound choked off and aching. He just wants to throw it all away. Pretend he never loved Eliot; because loving him aches. Loving him is like waiting for the sun in a torrential downpour. Waiting for something he’ll never get. Something he doesn’t even deserve. He just—can’t. Do it anymore. He can’t keep being miserable, and making things worse for everyone. “Life debt paid.” 

Julia scoffs. “Come on, Q—“ 

“If you won’t do it, I’ll find a hedge that will.” He turns his attention back on his, tightening his grip on himself. “I can’t—I spent months at his side, wishing he’d love me. And then even longer just—fighting for him back. He never even wanted me in the first place, Jules. And magic—magic was never meant for me. Brakebills should have been yours. Even Fillory turned,” He swallows down a lump and shrugs again, voice hoarse when he continues, “Turned into a fucking nightmare.” 

“That doesn’t mean you need to erase—“ 

“Jules.” He clenches his jaw and lets his hands fall to his sides. “I wrote a  _ suicide  _ note. I—it’s not just because of Eliot. It’s—it’s everything. Magic, Fillory, our friends—I keep hurting people. I can’t keep doing it. I can’t keep pretending it’s okay.” 

The pity’s as bright as fucking day in her eyes. “Then don’t. Let us help you—“ 

“I don’t want help, I want it to stop.” He shrugs a shoulder. “This feels like the better alternative.” 

“And Eliot? When he wakes up?” She waves a hand, “What do you think he’ll think? Quentin erased everything, Eliot. That’s what we’ll have to tell him. How do you think he’ll feel?” 

“Relieved.” 

She rears back, mouth falling open. “Q—you’re having an episode, that doesn’t mean—“ 

“Erase it. Or I’ll find a hedge that will.” He pretends to look thoughtful for a moment. “I’m sure Penny would be happy to. Least then he’ll know I won’t be putting your life in danger anymore.” 

“Funny that you think Margo won’t kill me if I do this.” 

“You’re immortal.” 

“Why doesn’t that logic work when I say that you’re not putting me in danger?” 

“Because you’re not the only one I’m endangering!” He takes a step back, jaw clicking as he moves it side to side. “I trust you, Jules. I—I want to start over. I’ve already booked a flight for Friday. I’ll start over. You guys can, too. Keep magic, you fought for it. But I—I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.” 

“You’re seriously saying you don’t want Eliot?” She rushes forward, only stopping when Quentin moves back out of her reach. She purses her lips. “Because I remember. Every time you looked at the monster—the night you found out he was alive.” She takes a careful step closer to him, and Quentin closes his eyes. “Q. You don’t have to fucking erase it. Eliot—“ 

“Will be better off without me.” He pulls his hands away, just as he she reaches out. Takes a step back and stares at her. “I’m telling you—this isn’t a choice. I’m doing this with or without your help.” He shrugs. “You can either help me and make sure I don’t actually die from a poorly done spell. Or—or you can hear about whatever happens second hand.” 

She stares at him for a long moment. “Why not just the magic, Q? Why—why everything?” 

“Because everything is connected. Everything I did lead to my dads death, lead to you—you.” His jaw clenches again, and he looks down at the floor between them. “To Eliot getting trapped in Fillory. To—just. Everything.” He glances up at her from beneath his hair. “Please, jules. I can’t— _ do _ this anymore.” 

She watches him, appraising, before sighing and moving to sit on the edge of the coffee table and crossing her arms. “Are you going to say goodbye?” She asks. She’s barely even started on the last word, before Quentin shakes his head and her face falls. “Q—“ 

“I have a flight booked for Boulder, Colorado for Friday. I—I’ll be gone before anyone even realizes anythings wrong. They’ll all be busy with Eliot.” 

“And you don’t think it’ll hurt? When he wakes up?” 

“How could it possibly hurt?” 

She sighs. “Q—“ 

“Are you going to help me or aren’t you?” 

She looks at the ground, crossing her arms. Then, softly, and full of disbelief, she says, “Yeah, Q. Obviously.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I left out the happy ending in the tags bc I didn't want to spoil it.
> 
> Come hang out! I'm sadlittlenerdking on tumblr.


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